


Vox

by sophiahelix



Category: The Office (US)
Genre: Ensemble Cast, F/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-01
Updated: 2006-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-19 13:46:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/pseuds/sophiahelix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She didn't analyze it. Not talking to him had been weird and hard and lonely; talking to him made her happy."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vox

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks: To Lodessa and Wemblee for listening to me bitch and moan while writing this.
> 
> Note: This story owes a deep and obvious debt to Voleuse's [Insatiate #11](http://moodfic.livejournal.com/113734.html#cutid1), and [this phone sex fic](http://meyerlemon.livejournal.com/851309.html?thread=12112749#t12112749) by an anonymous author, both mentioned in a recent discussion at the TWOP forums. I was struck by the concept and had to run with it in my own way, what can I say. This was supposed to be a short, smutty fluff fic, and turned into a long, somewhat-smutty fluff fic with a smidge of plot. No redeeming stories were harmed in the making, except all the ones I didn't write.

It took her two days to think of a good excuse. Calling an inside extension by "accident" was out; she wasn't ready to call just to chat yet either. Of course she could get the Stamford fax number from the receptionist, but she figured that by the time he realized that they would already be talking, and that was the important thing.

"So I've got this list of impressions Michael Scott has done today," she said when he picked up. "I just don’t know where to send it."

"Hm," he said. "Are they funny?"

"No."

"Saturday Night Live is out, then."

"I don't know, I don’t think SNL really cares about funny anymore."

"Probably not…but do any of the jokes involve the president or Lindsay Lohan?"

"Sadly, no."

"Then it's still out."

"There's a Jessica Simpson joke."

"Michael knows who Jessica Simpson is?"

"Kind of. He still thinks she's on Newlyweds."

"She's not?"

"No! And Brad Pitt dumped Jennifer Aniston for Angelina Jolie."

"You're destroying all my illusions, Beesly."

That call used up most of her lunch break. She wondered if he had caller ID on his work phone and hoped not, because she really didn't need him to know that she'd made the call from her cell, sitting in her car with a little plastic tray of sushi on her lap. Casual was the watchword.

A week later he called to read her an article from Maxim over the phone. When they hung up after two hours, her ear sore and red, she checked the magazine's website to see if he could have emailed the article to her. He could have.

It was two more times before she called late enough to catch him on his way out the door. He answered after just one ring, though, and she hoped that meant something besides the fact that he was waiting on a sales call.

"Can I call you right back?" he asked.

After that she started just calling him at home. He said he usually ate dinner around six and she started eating then too, even though she liked to eat later, so she could be ready to talk at seven. They were watching some of the same shows this fall, so on Mondays she didn’t call until after ten so they could make fun of that cheerleader girl on Heroes, and he knew not to bug her during Gilmore Girls.

She didn't analyze it. Not talking to him had been weird and hard and lonely; talking to him made her happy. He was three states away (she'd counted on a map), and it seemed like maybe he was willing to take what she could give, a friendly three-hour phone call every few days and maybe a return to the old camaraderie. She was grateful for that.

It wasn't until she called one Friday night (they'd started watching Battlestar Galactica, the better to understand and thus mock Dwight, but it had ended up being pretty interesting, although Dwight was never, ever going to know that) that things seemed a little different.

"Hey," he said, stretching it out.

"So. Which one do you think will be revealed as a cylon this week?"

"I don't know."

"I think it's going to be that guy with the eye patch. What this show really needs a pirate robot."

"Hey. Listen. I've got, um -- I'm doing something tonight. Can I call you – tomorrow?"

"Oh," she said. There was a pause, just long enough for her to figure it out, and then they both spoke at once.

"I'm sorry – "

"It's – "

"Have a good time," she said in a rush.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I will. Call you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," she said.

All the next week she tried not to think about that call, or the brief, stupid flash of envy she'd had. Of course she was jealous that he was going out on Friday night; it was much more fun than what she usually did, watching TV in her pajamas and ordering in pizza. It was really time she took Kelly up on another one of her invitations.

Next Friday, though, she was on the couch again, yellow flannel pajamas on, remote in hand, and the phone on the pillow next to her. Sometimes her mom called after work.

"So, no pirate robots yet," he said when she answered, and she could almost hear his smile. "I am very disappointed."

"No ninjas either."

"So what you're saying is that this show fails the basic requirements of awesomeness."

"There might be a monkey."

"You're right. We'll hold out for a monkey."

"Monkey robot or just a plain old monkey?"

"Either."

"Will the judges accept a lemur?"

"Why, do you think a lemur is more likely to show up than any other kind of monkey?" He laughed a little as he said it, which meant he'd lost; she always kept track, privately, of who broke first. He usually won.

By Christmas they were talking four times a week, Fridays included. She never asked if he just moved his dates to Saturday night, or whether he even went on dates anymore. She'd never asked about his dates before he left, after all.

The first time she touched herself, she hadn't meant to do it. Her bra was just uncomfortable, digging into her as she lay on the bed watching the Daily Show, and after she managed to wriggle out of it without dropping the phone, she reached under her shirt to massage the place where the underwire cut into her skin. He was in the middle of a long story about something his neighbor's kid had done, and suddenly something about the combination of her fingers on her breast and the warm tones of his voice in her ear seemed very right.

"And then he takes the snow shovel and – Pam? Are you still there?"

"Mm," she said, startled. "I'm listening. Keep talking."

After that she was usually in bed when he called. Week by week she let her fingers wander lower, flushing with the secret shame of it. She never went too far, just brushing her skin where it felt good, losing herself for a few minutes. Sometimes she knew her breath got a little shaky, or she paused too long before answering his question, but she didn't think he knew what was going on. It wasn't really about him, after all.

Once they hung up right as she was getting dangerously close, and after turning the phone off she just let herself go, making the noises she'd been holding back, arching her hips up. She turned her head and caught sight of herself in the mirrored closet door, her camisole pulled up almost to her breasts, her hand working underneath her flannel pajama pants and her face rosy. Mingled embarrassment and arousal made the blood pound in her head and she closed her eyes, breathing hard. When she came she certainly wasn't thinking about anybody.

Valentine's Day fell on a Wednesday, one of their regular nights, but she didn't expect a call from him. If nothing else, he'd probably be out with friends, and anyhow she shouldn't really be letting him know that she didn't have a date. She could have had one, of course – Kelly was always offering up some single friend of Ryan's who would be just perfect for her – but the idea of going out with some guy just because they were both too desperate to be alone that night was unspeakably grim. She treated herself to a carton of her favorite garlic chicken and a chocolate éclair instead, and settled down with a movie.

When the phone rang at seven-thirty she couldn't ignore the glow she felt, and she smiled around a mouthful of chicken and rice.

"So who's winning?" she said, picking up the phone.

"Winning what?"

"The poker game. You know, I think it's really evil the way you stay friends with those guys just so you can take all their money."

"No poker game."

"Jim Halpert, abandoning a yearly tradition? That can only mean you've got a hot date."

"No hot date."

"Lukewarm date?" She felt her chest tighten, treading on dangerous ground.

"Not even a tepid one. I'm footloose and fancy-free in Connecticut."

"Join the club. Except for the part about Connecticut."

"Are you eating ice cream and watching _The Notebook_?"

"Close. Garlic chicken and _Reservoir Dogs_. If you were only gay and English, it would be like a Bridget Jones movie."

"Every girl deserves a gay best friend."

"Too bad you're only one of those things."

There was a pause. "Are you casting aspersions on my sexuality?

She licked her lips, which seemed dry. "A little slow on the uptake, Halpert. Guess my Pennsylvania witticisms aren't translating to Connecticut."

"Score one for the Scranton team," he said.

Hours later she lay stretched out on her bed, the cartons from dinner on the floor and _Kill Bill Vol. 2_ , the only Tarantino movie they both owned, most of the way over.

"I miss the yellow jumpsuit," he said.

"Really?" she yawned. She'd long since changed into her nightgown, a silky red thing she hadn't worn in months. It was really too thin for February, but it was Valentine's Day, after all. The fabric felt good against her skin, light and soft.

"Yeah, I like a woman in yellow."

"Not everyone can wear yellow."

"This is one of those girl-things about skin tones and seasons that I'm just not going to understand, isn't it?"

"What's there to understand?" she asked, running her hand over her stomach. The material of her nightgown folded over on itself, pulling up her thighs a little. "You can't wear colors that match your skin too well."

"Like tan?"

"No, like red or yellow. Like, if you have olive skin or sallow undertones, you can't wear colors that match that. It's totally logical."

"How do you know if you have 'sallow undertones'?"

"Um, you just look?" she said. Her nightgown slid up a little farther, as she pulled the fabric towards her breasts. "It's really obvious if you put something yellow up to your skin and it looks bad. It makes you look like you have jaundice."

"What _is_ jaundice?" he asked.

"I don't know. Something to do with the liver, I think," she said, concentrating less on what she was saying and more on the feeling of her hand, brushing her bare thighs.

"Gross."

"Uh-huh."

Neither of them said anything for a minute. She spread her legs a little, trying to keep herself from breathing noticeably harder.

"What about red?" His voice seemed lower, quieter. Her pulse leapt.

"What about it?" she asked, wishing he would stop asking questions and just let her listen to him talk. It was hard to forget what she was doing when she had to _think_.

"Who can't wear red?"

"Uh, people with rosy skin. It makes them look blotchy."

"I've seen girls with rosy skin wear red."

"Well, they're special," she said. Her fingers had reached the elastic of her underwear, and she slid one under, biting her lip.

"How about green? Blue? Silver?"

"Geez, Jim, do I sound like the Avon lady to you? Maybe you should go get your colors done."

"Nah, I already know I'm a spring."

She laughed at that, her fingers stilling, and the heavy, languid feeling disappeared for a moment. In the silence afterwards, she caught a sudden hitch in his breathing, a sound at once familiar and strange, and she knew why he kept asking her questions.

"Um," she said, the blood rushing to her face again.

"Yeah," he said.

"The movie's almost over."

"Yeah, but we're still waiting for the five-point-palm-exploding-heart attack."

"Wouldn’t want to miss that," she said quietly, distracted. Her fingers had slipped into her underwear again.

"Yeah, it's a classic," he said, sounding just as distracted as she felt.

They watched in silence for a minute. She felt like the pounding of her heart must be audible over the phone, mixed with her breathing, which she couldn't seem to slow down as much as she wanted to. She was almost sick with the anticipation, the sensation of getting away with something she shouldn't be.

"This movie is longer than I remembered," she said finally.

"Yeah," he said, and she heard, in the background, a sudden slick sound that made her cheeks flame with recognition. All at once, it seemed like too much, too embarrassing and strange to be doing this, each pretending they didn't know what was going on.

"Jim, I think I'd better go to sleep now," she said, pulling her hand away and sitting up.

"Um – " he said.

"Sorry. No, uh, no five-palm-point-heart attack tonight."

"Five-point-palm- _exploding_ -heart attack."

She smiled, almost against her will. "Not that either. I'll call on Friday, OK?"

"OK," he said. "Uh, Pam – "

"Good night," she said, and hung up.

She held onto the phone for a minute. The throb between her legs was a sweet ache, and she couldn't help but think of him, stretched out on his bed, hand –

In a moment she was lying down again, rubbing herself fast and hard, and for the first time in months she let herself imagine him, imagine _Jim_ , naked and here with her, and his mouth and his hands, and then she was coming so hard that she saw stars of red and white, against the darkness of her arm thrown across her eyes.

She laid there for a moment, getting her breath back and feeling the sweat dry on her bare skin. It was really too cold to be wearing such a thin nightgown. She crawled under the covers, turning off the light, but she still felt on edge somehow.

"I forgot something," she said, when he answered.

"Yeah?" he asked. His voice was rough, tired-sounding, and it sent a shiver through her.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

She heard a little chuff of laughter over the phone. "Same to you. Get some sleep, Beesly."

"OK."

"Good night."

For the rest of February she made her calls to him fully-dressed, sitting on the couch with her blinds open, just so she wouldn't be tempted. She wasn't under any illusions about how it would be received; she just didn't know what she wanted from it. For that matter, she didn't really know anymore what _he_ wanted. Better to take it back to where it had started, friendly calls that didn't mean anything. She was very careful not to think about how her last attempt at moving their relationship backwards had worked out.

It wasn't until the night before the leadership retreat, pushed to March this year, that they found out both branches had been included.

"You're kidding me," he said. "Michael didn't say anything?"

"No!"

"Josh I can believe," he said. "But Michael – "

"But Michael what?" she said, surprised by the defensiveness that sprang up. "What's the difference?"

"You know," he said, sounding embarrassed. "Michael and secrets…"

There was a pause, and she remembered a really bad day last year, after the _last_ retreat. She blushed, glad he couldn't see her.

"Well, he's probably mad," she said. "He's been deprived of the chance to finally prove this year that he knows something about leadership. I'm sure Josh will be in charge."

"Yeah," he said, sounding like he was thinking about something. "I know Josh picked the place."

"What is it? Michael won't tell us."

"What did he tell you to bring this year? Handcuffs and a pith helmet?"

She smiled, and the momentary tension eased. "An underwater camera and snowshoes. And lots of singles."

"Close. It's a ski lodge. And an overnight."

"Oh," she said. "That sounds… nice. And seasonally appropriate. Points to Josh."

"It's not a _good_ ski lodge."

"Well, it's not going to be a good retreat. At least with Michael we knew we could ignore him. I'm going to have to actually pay attention this year, aren't I?"

"Not if my evil scheme to dope Josh's Glenfiddich goes according to plan. You might want to bring those singles after all."

"He strips when he gets drunk?"

"Sometimes." She heard the smile in his voice, but she couldn't tell if he was teasing or not.

"OK, you _have_ to tell me about that one day."

"I _have_ to?"

"Yeah, that's an order."

"Yes, ma'am."

They both went quiet for a moment. "So, I guess I'll see you tomorrow afternoon," she said.

"Not if I see you first."

"Nice."

"Is anyone actually bringing snowshoes?"

"I think Creed has a pair."

"Surprising."

"Not really."

"No."

"OK, then," she said after another pause. "I'll see you."

"Yup. Hasta manana."

After they hung up she spent a long time going through her closet. Her snowsuit was new from last year, white with a furry hood, but her boots were looking a little worn out. They'd probably do, though; she didn't plan on spending any more time in the snow than she had to.

Lodge clothes were a different question. She finally pulled out the red Fair Isle sweater she'd gotten on sale last spring, and a pair of brown corduroy pants. After a moment's consideration she swapped the pants for a long black skirt, slit up the side, which she hadn't worn since her parents' anniversary party, and added the black boots that were too fancy for the office. The Scranton branch was going to look bad enough as it was, and she might as well give it any help she could.

Michael had clearly counted on no one bringing snow clothes, judging by the pile of rented snowsuits in the back of his car, but Pam's phone tree had done its job and everyone but Ryan was wearing or carrying appropriate clothing. He took the suit Michael offered with a grimace, and then they piled onto the bus.

Warehouse hadn't been included in the retreat this year, part of the company-wide budget cutting, and she felt guilty about how glad she was. She'd been able to have a few more conversations with Roy that didn't feel horribly awkward, and once he'd even waited outside with her for the tow truck when her car got a flat, but she wasn't ready to spend the night in the same ski lodge as him. There was always an expectant, coiled look on his face these days, like he was just waiting for the right moment to try to kiss her or beg her to take him back, and the last thing she needed was for that to happen around other people.

There were plenty of empty seats on the bus, and she was surprised when Meredith slid in next to her.

"Creed," Meredith said, and that was enough. "Mind if I take the window? I could use some sleep."

Meredith slept with her head pillowed on her sweater, her mouth hanging open a little. Pam listened to the iPod shuffle she'd gotten in an after-Christmas sale and watched the hills grow into mountains, grey slush turning into smooth white snow.

When they got to the lodge, she didn’t see another bus in the lot, just lots of people in business suits getting out of cars. Nice cars. It didn't bode well.

Michael herded them across the parking lot like sheep, trying to get them to walk in two rows like those _Madeleine_ books, but they were running late and everyone was sleepy and burdened down by their luggage, which was why, between check-in and discovering Michael had left all the rented snowsuits on the bus, she didn't see Jim until she slipped into the conference room.

"Glad to see Scranton could make it," Josh said acidly from the podium, and thirty heads swiveled around. She was thankful, for once, that she was short and Creed was tall, because it meant she could study Jim with his new haircut and nice new suit before he caught sight of her.

He smiled, kind of carefully. She crooked a smile back, feeling herself go pink, mostly because Michael was saying something particularly embarrassing as he tried to join Josh at the front of the room. She sat down, near the back.

Embarrassment kept her head down for a while, so it was at least fifteen minutes before she picked up on the girl sitting next to him. She was the kind of girl you noticed, with her dark hair swept to the side and her tailored navy suit. During the presentation she kept tilting her head up to talk to Jim, and she bumped his shoulder with hers a few times, sharing a smothered laugh. Pam thought Jim's body language was a little stiffer, and once it almost looked like he was turning back to glance her way, but she might have just imagined it.

At the coffee break she stayed in her seat, still watching. They didn't touch each other as they stood in line, chatting with another guy from Stamford. After a minute Jim looked over at her for real, and she ducked her head and got up to go talk to Kelly.

The branches weren't mingling much, she noticed as she poured herself a cup of weak coffee. Even Michael was sticking close to his side, although she thought that was probably more about Jan.

Jan herself was standing behind Pam when she turned away from the buffet table, looking both stressed-out and bored in a severe black suit. She smiled a little when Pam caught her glance.

"You made it," Jan said, the words sounding tight. "We were getting worried."

"Well, you know," Pam said. "It's hard to get twenty people moving."

Jan nodded slowly, raising her eyebrows. Pam wished Jan wouldn't wear so much dark eye makeup in the daytime; sometimes it looked unnerving, predatory.

"No bus troubles on the way?"

"No," Pam said, getting the feeling that she was hearing Michael's excuse.

"Just Michael Scott troubles, then."

Pam turned her wince into a smile, fake and wide. She always felt so awkward when Jan wanted her to make Michael look bad. It wasn't like he needed the help.

"I think we were all moving pretty slow," she said, trying to make her voice firm.

Jan appeared to take the hint. "Well, make sure you get out there and mingle. It's important that employees of, uh, both branches get comfortable with each other. We'll be doing an icebreaker in a minute."

Pam managed not to roll her eyes until Jan had disappeared back into the crowd. Maybe Michael had had more to do with the retreat planning than she'd suspected.

She was just heading for the muffin table when she caught sight of Jim again, making a determined line across the room. A sudden clot of panic tightened her chest for a moment and she abandoned her hopes of poppyseed, spinning on her heel to head down the hall to the restrooms. She pulled open the door to the ladies and darted inside, feeling like she was playing a children's game. Maybe she was.

It shouldn't have been so hard. Their conversations over the last five months had been casual, joking, the way their friendship had always been. She hadn't been confessing any deep dark secrets that she was ashamed to face up to now. All she had to do was smile, say hello, make a little fun of Josh's presentation, and ask Jim if he'd seen that ice skating movie yet. She could handle that.

She leaned her head against the cool, metal box of the paper towel dispenser and sighed, her breath fogging up the silver steel. It was the real Jim, talking and smiling, that she couldn't handle, and she knew it. Jim with a little distance in his eyes and a pretty girl in a suit bumping shoulders with him, bringing a whole slew of stories and jokes from his new life. She wasn't sure she'd ever be ready for that.

People were still standing around when she came out of the bathroom, but they seemed to be in the middle of some game she didn't understand, grouped into twos. Kevin stood near the hallway entrance, and she turned to him with a questioning look.

"Two truths and a lie," he said.

"Oh."

"Once I threw up on the bus in ninth grade and everyone laughed at me."

"Kevin, I think we're supposed to do this with people we don't already know."

"I was just saying."

She shook her head and moved reluctantly into the crowd, looking for an unoccupied person. There was a tap on her shoulder, and her heart leapt.

"I'm Karen," said the girl in the navy suit.

"Pam," she said.

"OK. I'm allergic to caviar. I broke both of my kneecaps in college. My favorite movie is _High Fidelity_."

"Mine too," Pam said, surprised. Karen smiled.

"How do you know that's not the lie?"

"How do you know _I_ wasn't lying?"

Karen's smile got broader. "Seriously. Guess."

"OK, the caviar thing."

"Nope. One of the kneecaps was in high school."

"Do I want to know what happened?"

"That's for round two. But it's your turn now."

"Um. OK. When I was a little girl I had a pet frog. Uh. My middle name is Dawn. On my first date in high school I got left in the bathroom at a football game."

"She tells that story to everyone," Jim said, over Pam's shoulder. "Except it was a hockey game."

Karen raised her eyebrows. "Way to ruin the game, Halpert."

"You know me. I suck at games."

Pam made herself turn around. "Hey, you," she said, her voice sounding too high in her ears.

"Hey, Pam." He grinned at her, coming around to stand between her and Karen. She smiled back, but didn't let her eyes linger.

"Well, now the game's going to be no fun, if you guys are friends," Karen said. She elbowed Jim, and Pam decided they weren't sleeping together. Maybe they had in the past, or maybe they would in the future, but there was just something missing right now. Jim didn't stand close enough, or maybe he stood too close.

"You guys play," Pam said. "We already finished our round."

"You don't want to hear the kneecap story?"

"Oh, definitely. Over lunch?" Pam smiled, and glanced off into the crowd for another available person. She spotted the guy Jim and Karen had been talking to earlier, and made her way towards him.

"I'll hold you to that," Karen called after her.

" _I_ want to hear the kneecap story," she heard Jim say.

Andy proved to be exactly as weird as Jim had once told her, and she probably could have lived without knowing, or seeing, how many of his fingers were double-jointed, or that he could hit a high A above middle C. It certainly broke the ice, though.

She avoided Jim at lunch, even though she was pretty sure Karen had been sincere about the invitation. They just looked too cozy together, sharing a bag of chips and laughing about something, and the whole thing was really making her head ache. Why she'd never imagined that he'd find another _her_ was beyond her; he was a friendly guy. Of course he wanted someone to joke around with at work, and it didn't hurt that she was funny and had a cute smile. She'd probably be into Karen herself, if she was a guy.

Her head started to throb and she rested it on her hands, half-listening to Kelly tell her about some near-brush with death involving an ice scraper and stilettos.

"Kelly, is that friend of Ryan's still single?" she asked suddenly.

"Which one?" Kelly asked, thrown.

"Any of them."

Kelly smiled, then winked.

After lunch most of the group headed out into the snow. Pam zipped up her parka, but left her snow pants behind; she wasn't the world's best skier, and making snow angels didn't exactly appeal at the moment. She wandered out to the skating rink instead, passing Angela and Dwight in the lounge, the latter in a blaze-orange suit that enveloped his entire body except his eyes and nose. Angela was wearing her work clothes and a frown, as usual, although Pam was pretty sure the hot chocolate in her hand was laced with rum.

The skating rink was nearly empty, it being a Wednesday at the tail end of the season, and just a few Stamford people and Michael were whizzing around. She leaned against the wall and watched, praying he wouldn't actively injure anyone. It probably wouldn't do much for team-building.

"Who _is_ that dazzling hockey star? Do you think the NHL has already recruited him?"

She smiled, and Jim leaned on the wall next to her. She turned to face him, tipping her head to the side.

"I hear he's holding out for the Leafs."

"Smart man. Canada is the way to go."

She snorted.

"Nice parka, by the way," he said. "How many cute and fuzzy rabbits died to line that hood?"

"Several stuffed bunnies nobly gave their lives to keep my head kind of warm."

He nodded. "A sacrifice not made in vain."

Neither of them said anything for a second, and she felt like their gaze was lingering a little too long. She coughed and turned back to the rink.

"Where's Karen?"

"Skiing. She's a regular Picabo Street."

"Is that where the kneecap story comes in?"

"One of 'em."

The silence fell again, and she wanted to say something, like _She seems really nice_ , but it just seemed like too much to get into right then.

"I see the team-building has been a rousing success," she said instead.

"Oh, yeah. I think if we were to have a dance right now, everyone would be lined up on either side like in junior high."

"Waiting for the slow song to end and Kris Kross to come on so they could all dance."

"Definitely."

She watched Michael zip around a couple holding hands, breaking their grasp. The girl slipped and the guy grabbed for her, but she pulled him down and they ended up in a laughing heap on the ice.

"You're not going to skate?" he asked.

"Nah," she said. "I really suck at it."

"I remember," he said, kind of quietly, and the memory of that day last year came flooding back. She looked down, grateful for the parka hood hiding her blush.

"Hey, Michael's birthday is next week, huh?" he said. "Do you have anything planned?"

"You mean, does _he_ have anything planned? I think we're going to Chuck E. Cheese. Or maybe Applebee's."

"Not Chili's?" he asked.

"Um," she said. "Last year's Dundies. We were, uh, asked not to come back."

He raised his eyebrows. "Do I detect a note of guilt in your voice, Ms. Beesly?"

"Whatever would give you that idea?"

"A certain incident involving someone's driver's license being photocopied?"

"I have no memory of that incident."

"I'm sure you don't, Drunky."

"Whatever," she said, rolling her eyes. "Anyhow, it wasn't me this year. Not only me. And that's all you're ever going to know."

"Fair enough," he said with a smile. "Then the story of Karen's other kneecap will never pass my lips."

She was tired of the conversation suddenly, sick of rehashing the old memories, pretending things were still the same. They weren't, even after all the long phone calls and occasional emails. He'd left and she'd stayed, and if all they had could talk about face to face was stories about Michael Scott, maybe it wasn't worth the talking.

"Hey, I have to get back inside and finish some stuff for the afternoon presentation," she said. "I have about a million booklets to staple together."

"Want some help?" he asked.

"Thanks – uh, Ryan said he'd help," she lied. "I'll see you later?"

"Yeah," he said. He leaned away from the wall at the same time as she did, "I'll see you."

For a moment she was sure he was going to touch her; take her gloved hand in his, or lean down to kiss her. There was something in his eyes that was both familiar and scary, and she remembered all at once the way he made her feel when he was close, something a thousand phone calls couldn't do. She felt the blood rush to her face again.

It passed, though, and then he was leaning on the wall again and she was walking through the lounge, her heart pounding. She went by Angela, and for once she felt like she deserved the dirty look.

The afternoon session dragged, interminable powerpoints interspersed with some speeches from Michael that made her want to crawl out of her skin. By the time it was over she was barely awake, yawning as she took the elevator to her room, and she almost slept through dinner. When she woke up again it was dark outside, and her mouth felt dry and sticky.

She washed her face and did what she could with her hair, kind of stringy where she'd laid on it. The red sweater and black skirt were hanging in a garment bag in her closet and for a moment she felt silly, dressing up to have dinner with work people. It was good practice, she decided, for her next date. Whoever that would be with.

The lounge was still crowded when she got downstairs, people clumped in fours and fives around the tables watching March Madness. She sat next to Kelly and Ryan and managed to order a burger and a beer from a harried waitress.

"Who's winning?" she asked Kelly.

"Who's playing?"

She nodded along to Kelly's flow of conversation, sipping at her beer when it came. The lines between the branches had blurred somewhat by now, and most tables were a mix of Scranton and Stamford. It was weird to see Creed socializing like a normal person, Kevin shooting darts with a couple of young guys. It made her nervous, like she was bringing her kooky family to meet her potential in-laws in a Ben Stiller movie. She wondered just when these people had turned into family.

"And I'm like, no, a French manicure is totally not the same thing as a Paris manicure, but she wouldn't even listen! Don't you just hate it when people don't listen to you, Pam?"

"Mm hmm," she said.

"Anyhow, she totally overcharged me and when I wouldn't give her a tip because she didn't do the thing with the hot towels, she had a total fit. It was so embarrassing, Pam."

"What do you think of Karen?" Pam asked.

"Who?"

She shook her head. "Never mind."

Jim and Karen were sitting at the far end of the bar by the fireplace, their backs to her. She'd been watching them for twenty minutes. Their conversation was private, but not intimate; it looked like normal chatter. Karen still elbowed him or punched him occasionally, but it was really starting to seem like more of a friendly thing. They both glanced around occasionally, like they were looking for someone. She had a feeling it might be her.

She didn't want to feel like this, jealous and stupid and left out, especially when it was her own fault. It would be no big deal to just go over there, make a joke about Josh's stupid clipart graphics, order another beer, and kick back with them. It seemed like there might be space for that.

Except she felt all hot and cold when Jim smiled at her, and she burned when Karen flicked Jim's ear, looking so cute with her straight, swingy ponytail and sparkling grin, and it was unbelievable that she was here all over again. How many months had she worked to tamp all this down, back when she was still with Roy? How hard had it been to just start talking to each other again, being the friends she knew they should be?

Clearly they couldn't be friends, she thought, sliding off her stool. Not the real kind, hanging out together. Even being in the same room appeared to be a problem. And she'd gone and ruined their phone calls, so really, where did that leave them?

She said goodnight to Kelly and the back of Ryan's head and left, dropping a twenty on the table. She was pretty sure that Karen saw her just as she was leaving, but no one came after her.

It was boring up in her room. She felt like she deserved boring. Nothing good was on any of the twelve channels the hotel carried, and her InStyle magazine seemed tacky and empty, just pages of too-expensive clothes worn by too-young models. She managed to sit through most of a Sylvester Stallone movie on HBO before deciding that she really, really didn't care if the hostages made it out alive, and decided to take a bath.

The hotel tub was small and the water didn't get very hot, but it was still nice to lie there, her hair pinned up, and watch the snow falling outside the little window. Maybe she really would go on a date with one of Ryan's friends. She wondered what Ryan would think.

When she got out of the tub she dried off with the scratchy white hotel towel and rubbed lotion into her winter-dry skin. It left her too sticky to put on pajamas, and the heater was keeping the room pretty warm, so she just lay down on the sheets, flipping through the channels again. She could catch the ten o'clock news, at least.

A puff piece about restaurant ratings reminded her that she was supposed to call her mom to confirm plans for the following weekend. She dug her phone out of her purse, punched in her mom's number, and paused.

"Hey," Jim said when he answered, sounding surprised. "Where are you?"

"In my room," she said. "Where are you?"

"The same. Uh, why didn't you just come down instead of calling?"

"Well," she said. "I wasn't sure – I didn't want to bug you if you were. Um. If you were busy."

"Oh," he said. "Well, I'm not. Just hanging out here by myself."

"Cool," she said.

"Do you want to – "

"What're you doing?"

"Uh," he said. "Just flipping channels. You?"

"Yeah. Watching the news. I tried to watch a movie earlier."

"Any good?"

"It was a Sylvester Stallone movie."

"Which one?"

"No idea."

"Did he have on no shirt for most of it and a really big gun? And were some people in mortal peril?"

"Yup."

"So, any of them, then."

"Pretty much."

"Is it still on?"

"No, I think HBO's switched over to soft-core porn now."

She heard him swallow, and then the background noise changed.

"You totally just switched the channel to HBO, didn't you?" she asked.

"Maybe."

"Anything good?"

"See for yourself."

"Are you saying I should watch porn, Jim?"

"I'm saying see for yourself."

She changed the channel. "Oh my god, this is totally _Spy Kids_! My cousin loves this movie."

"Your cousin loves soft core porn?"

"Yeah, right, starring twelve-year-olds in 3-D glasses."

"Very hot."

"Ew," she said, laughing.

"Are we really going to watch this movie?" he asked, after a minute.

"I don't know, I don’t have anything better to do. But you've got all your Stamford friends to hang out with."

"Right. All of them. Most of them still call me by that stupid nickname Andy made up, and the rest know me from kicking my ass daily in a videogame I really suck at. And don't forget all the times Josh singles me out in meetings and makes me look like a huge kiss-ass."

"Yeah, Josh seems to really like you."

"I think he's got this idea of me as the young go-getter he used to be."

"Aren't you a young go-getter?"

"Oh, totally. I just like to keep it on the down-low."

"You've got Karen," she said, heart in her throat.

"What?"

"She's your friend."

"Yeah," he said, after a pause. "She's – fun."

"She seems fun."

"Fun is good," he said.

She counted out three breaths.

"She's not – " he said, then stopped.

"Not what?"

"Not _as_ fun."

"Oh," she said. She couldn't fight the little smile tickling the corners of her mouth.

"Shouldn't we wearing 3-D glasses if we're going to watch this movie?" he asked.

"Probably," she said. It felt like the smile was taking over her whole body, keeping her warm. She rested her hand on her bare stomach. "So what _are_ you wearing, Jim?"

"Um," he said. "Teeshirt and boxers?"

"Very 007," she said.

"You?"

"Well," she said, and the glow was a flush, from her cheeks down to her toes. "Nothing."

She heard him swallow again, and her heart started thumping.

"Nothing?" he asked.

"I got out of the bath a while ago."

"Oh. Good bath?"

"OK. The bathtub wasn’t very big."

"And you just… didn't feel like getting dressed?"

"Well. I had to put lotion on." She stroked her stomach lightly, brushing lower.

"You're not cold?"

"Mm. It's pretty warm down here. Isn't your room warm?"

"Yeah," he said, sounding a little out of breath.

"I guess I could put some clothes on, if that would make you feel better."

"Nah, I'm good."

"OK."

"If you're good."

"I'm… all right."

"Just all right?"

"I could be better."

"Oh," he said, his voice low. "Well. What would make you feel better?"

"Hm," she said. Her fingers had slipped farther down now, and when she touched herself, she sucked in a quick breath that she didn't bother to hide. "Well, I guess I can think of one thing."

"Yeah?"

"I'm kind of ..."

"What?"

"Kind of already doing it," she almost whispered.

"Oh," he said, more of a sigh than a word.

"So I'm feeling – good."

He didn't answer.

"Jim? Are you – "

"Yeah," he said. "I am."

"OK," she breathed.

They didn't say anything for a while. She could hear him breathing over the phone, quick, sharp inhalations. Her whole body was starting to tingle, her head ringing, like she wasn't getting enough air or blood or something. It felt wonderful.

"Jim," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Tell me what you're thinking about."

"You." It shouldn't have been a surprise, but she couldn't help the shiver that went through her.

"Specifically."

"Specifically?" he asked, half-groaning.

"What do you want right now, Jim?"

"God. _You_."

She couldn't breathe. Her chest was too tight, and all she could think about was him, down the hall, touching himself and thinking of her.

"What's your room number?" she asked, sitting up.

"Pam?"

"I want – is this OK?"

"Yeah. _Yes_. Of course."

"Really?"

"Just - get down here."

"Number?"

"280."

"OK."

Her hand shaking, she hung up the phone and slid off the bed. She pulled her pink fleece robe out of the closet and wrapped it around her, the microfiber soft against her flushed skin. For a moment she pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, feeling her heart race, trying to calm down.

"OK," she said again, to herself.

She'd forgotten to bring slippers, and the carpet was rough under her bare feet as she hurried down the hall, praying she wouldn't bump into anyone she knew. Jim's room was twelve away from hers, on the opposite side. She counted the numbers down, twisting her fingers together. _Don't think._

It took her three tries before she could actually knock on his door. He didn't answer right away, and she panicked for a second before realizing he might be just as nervous as her. He opened the door at last, wearing a grey Penn State shirt and just barely peeking around the door. Her heart gave a funny lurch when she realized why.

"Hey," she said, daring a small smile.

"Hey," he said. She wondered if she looked as dazed as he did.

It was even harder to step across the threshold than it had been to knock, with his eyes on her. He stepped away, pulling the door open, and she took a deep breath and followed.

His room was dark, without even the glow of the television. Jim shut the door behind her. She couldn't hear anything but the sound of their breathing, loud in the sudden silence.

Then he was kissing her, mouth hot on hers and his hips pressing her against the wall, his hands braced above her head. She reached up to hold onto him, her thumbs on his jaw, her fingers tangled in his hair.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered, kissing her neck, biting her softly. "Tell me you don't want this."

"I want this," she managed. "God, Jim – "

His hands left the wall and roamed her body, brushing her breasts. His tongue was in her ear. She was never going to catch her breath again.

"Please," she said, and moved his hands to the tie of her robe.

He groaned and pulled her robe open, sliding his hands inside. The brush of his warm fingers on her ribs made her shiver. He reached up, catching her nipples between the tips of his fingers, and she gasped outright, arching her hips towards his. He was hard, pressed against her bare stomach, and she could feel the warmth through the thin flannel of his boxers.

She pulled his head down to kiss him again, opening her mouth under his. Her teeth caught his lip and he flinched, before sliding his tongue into her mouth. It was all she could do to keep up with his kisses, wild and fierce.

He was cupping her breasts now, lifting them in his big hands, and then his fingers danced up her shoulders, pushing the robe backwards. She got the hint. Dropping her hands, she shrugged out of the robe, letting him drag it down her arms until it pooled at her feet. The wood paneling behind her was cool on her skin as she leaned back, catching her breath.

"Oh," he said. It was too dark to see his face clearly, but she could see his head tilt up and down, looking at her, and his throat moved as he swallowed.

She was glad of the darkness. It made it easier to spread her legs, to arch her shoulders against the wall until her breasts strained forward, letting him know how much she wanted this. It made it easy to want him.

"Fuck," he said, so low she could barely hear. They weren't touching anymore, and the air between them seemed strange, a charged field.

"Touch me," she whispered. She reached for his hand and put it on her hip. Their eyes met and she pulled his hand lower, his fingers stroking through her hair, then curling down. She couldn't help moaning, biting her lip, when he slid one finger inside her.

He kissed her again, hot and sloppy, groaning into her mouth. She held onto his shoulder, digging her fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt and the hard muscle of his arm, as he slid two more fingers into her, twisting and thrusting. She felt him twitch against her hip and reached to pull down the waistband of his boxers.

When she got her hand around him he gasped, licking at the corner of her mouth. He was _big_ , she realized, long and heavy in her hand, and her heart began to pound at the thought of having him inside her. It was enticing and terrifying at the same time.

" _Pam_ ," he moaned, his breath hot in her ear. She felt the rumble in his chest as he spoke. He pushed his fingers in deeper, his thumb finding her clit, and moved one knee between hers. "I want – are you ready? You're so wet."

She squeezed him, kissing his neck, and then he was pulling his fingers away, sliding his hands under her ass and lifting her up. She gasped and clutched his shoulders, spreading her legs to wrap around his hips. He pressed against her, warm and insistent, and she shifted until he was in the right place, sliding up and in.

The stretch was strange, but bearable. She listened to their breathing, heavy in the stillness, and tried not to think about the fact that he was only the second man she'd ever done this with.

Then he was fucking her, his fingers digging into her ass, his tongue filling her mouth. Her head knocked against the wall and she barely noticed, consumed by the feeling of him inside her, the sweet slide of his hips snapping against hers. He groaned something and she couldn't even answer, just held him tighter.

She closed her eyes as the pleasure built, sharp and spiking like the temperature on a hot day until it leveled off, leaving her writhing. All she could hear was their breath, his rough panting in her ear, her own broken moans. It was like dying, she thought wildly, like waiting for the little spark at the end of the tunnel to open up to brilliant white light.

He stumbled backwards, startling her, and staggered over to drop her on the bed, almost knocking the breath out of her. He was leaning over her in a moment, bracing his hands on either side of her head. She could see him better now, his face illuminated by the moonlight from the window. He started fucking her harder, though, his feet still on the floor and his knees digging into the bed, and then the pinpoint world narrowed until she almost blacked out, gasping with the release that shook her in long, shivering waves.

That was it for him, and he managed to groan her name before spilling into her, his thrusts fast and deep. It was starting to hurt, but then he was lying with his head between her breasts, panting as he tried to get his breath back. As she slid her hands through his hair, wild, crazed affection throbbing in her veins, she thought maybe it might work out this time after all.

"So," she said, long minutes later, when the sweat was drying on their skin, bringing up goosebumps. "That happened."

"Yeah," he said against her breast. "It kind of did."

"Kind of?"

She felt him smile. "OK, I can't play it cool. That was – amazing."

"Yeah," she said, smiling herself.

"And… I am going to ruin the amazing afterglow by asking you if this means you've changed your mind about things, because I am just that stupid."

He lifted his head when he said it, and she swore her heart stopped for a moment. His hair was a mess and his face was a study, challenging and hopeful and a little scared. She felt just about exactly the same.

"That wouldn't be an … incorrect assumption," she said slowly.

"But not correct either?"

She blew out a breath. "I seem to recall that one of us lives three states away."

"You think a little thing like that is going to stand between me and the best sex of my life?"

"Best?" she asked, caught off guard. His glance dropped.

"Yeah."

"Oh," she said. "Well, it's still a significant obstacle to overcome."

"Not for long."

He looked back up again and she raised her eyebrows, giving him a questioning stare.

"The branch merger's going to happen," he sighed. "Scranton has the biggest contracts, thanks to Michael, but everyone knows Josh is better at running a branch. Some of us are coming down. Some of us won't be."

"Oh my god," she said. "How long have you known?"

"Since this morning. One of the perks of being a kiss-ass."

"So you admit to it."

"Josh asked me on the drive down if there was anything I missed about Scranton. I said there were a few things."

She bit her lip, thinking.

"And downsizing?" she asked.

"Each branch will lose half its staff," he said. "It's going to suck."

Her stomach dropped. Four years, and she never thought she'd be panicked at the thought of losing her job.

"I’m pretty sure you won't be going anywhere," he said slowly. "Margaret is almost sixty and she's got grandkids in Stamford. And, well, I know a guy on the inside."

"But other people – "

"Yeah. Like I said, it's going to suck."

"But – you're coming back," she said, trying to find her way. "For sure."

"If you want me to."

There was nothing in his face now but a question, open and direct. She had a feeling that this was the last time he was going to ask it.

"Come back, Jim," she whispered. The smile he gave her melted whatever was left of her poor, overworked heart. "Let's get this right."

"I thought we just did that," he teased.

"There's always room for improvement," she said, and then he was moving up to kiss her again.

He wanted to skip the morning session, protesting that three hours of sleep wasn't enough to face another of Josh's slide presentations, but she dragged him out of bed at seven with the promise of a long lunch break.

"Besides," she said. "You're not the one who'd have to ride home with Angela giving you whore-glares."

"Whore-glares?"

"It's one step up from the usual heathen-glare. Second-degree burns instead of first."

He shook his head, knotting his tie in the mirror. "I still don't understand where she gets off. Like I didn't see her and Dwight making out in the elevator last night."

"Please tell me you're kidding."

"I totally did. She had her hands down his snowsuit and everything."

"Thank you for insuring that I won't be sorry to miss breakfast."

He turned to look at her. "Seriously, though. An office relationship is no big deal. You clear it with HR, you take some crap from your co-workers, the end."

"You sound pretty conversant with the rules."

"Well," he said. "Yeah."

"And yet the kneecap story never came up."

He blushed, looking down to fiddle with his tie. "You'd be surprised what you don't have time to talk about when she dumps you after two weeks."

"Three weeks, though, that's kneecap territory. I think week four is when you do family medical history."

"Pam."

She smiled, quick and forgiving. "She's really nice. She seems like a great friend."

"She is."

"Do you think she'll transfer too?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. We'll have to wait and see if she gets the chance."

The long lunch break ran longer than expected. Morning session had consisted of the merger announcement, followed by several minutes of panic and several hours of speeches that failed to be reassuring and vague, open-ended promises. Back in her room, she tried to forget most of it as Jim pulled her up to her knees, one arm wrapped under her breasts and the other braced against the headboard. It wasn't too hard.

The afternoon session lasted just an hour, Jan making one last weary attempt at damage control and Michael making a speech that she thought he might have pulled from _Network_. Jim took her hand and squeezed it as the room began to empty out, and she let him, for just a moment.

She said goodbye to him and Karen at the same time, the latter slipping a card into her hand.

"Give me all the dirt on Scranton," Karen said. "Major life decisions are hanging in the balance here."

She caught Jim's eye. He smiled.

"It's a good place," she said to Karen. "In its way."

Back on the bus, she plugged her headphones in and took up the entire seat with her luggage. Conversation around her was worried and tense, and she thought Phyllis might be crying. It all seemed far away, like she was somewhere else entirely. She'd worry about it later.

One last thing nagged, and she pulled out her phone, noticing that the battery was almost dead. It wasn't going to be a long call, though.

"Did you want to play slug bug?" he asked when he answered. "It's going to be hard to punch you in the arm from over here."

"Thanks but no," she said. "I forgot something."

"Oh, right," he said. "Yeah, I grabbed your watch when I checked out. Sorry, I forget to give it to you."

"That's not it."

"Oh?"

She took in a breath, and let it out slowly. She looked around, then lowered her voice. "I just – I should say. Um."

"Yeah?"

"Love you."

She heard him laugh, a quick puff of air, and wished she could see his smile. "Same to you."

Her phone battery died a few minutes later. She tucked it into her bag and settled down in her seat, watching the sun melt the snow.


End file.
